


Behave like a Chameleon

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (A/B/O) [28]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bigotry & Prejudice, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Crippled Kate's, Gen, Hate Crimes, M/M, Murder Mystery, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Racism, Rosemary and Thyme | Chameleon (The Witcher), The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Ever since Dandelion inherited this place he’s talked about it constantly. I just never expected him to take action so quickly, especially not after….Behave like a ChameleonLook forward and observe behind. Always watch your surroundings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Priscilla, Zoltan Chivay & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Zoltan Chivay & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (A/B/O) [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598041
Comments: 51
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Chameleons don’t actually change color to match their enviroment and every time someone says that they do I cry inside. 
> 
> CHAMELEONS CHANGE COLOR BASED ON EMOTIONS. 
> 
> Today’s title is actually a Malagasy proverb, not an idiom, buttttttt its close enough. The full saying is “Behave like the chameleon: look forward and observe behind.”
> 
> Basically I just needed something that used the word “Chameleon” since that’s the name Dandelion picks for his cabaret.

He’d promised Dandelion that he would leave in the morning, and he’d fully intended to do that. But then he’d been delayed doing an errand for Triss (which had actually been to pick up more supplies for Dandelion's treatment), then again waiting on a boat to Skellige.

The next boat wasn’t leaving for nearly a week, so as much as Geralt was ready to crawl out of his skin to get to Ciri, he couldn’t deny that staying with Dandelion had it’s benefits.

The Rosemary and Thyme had - since Dandelion’s return - been officially closed, only occupied by Dandelion, Zoltan, Geralt, and (to the bard’s delight) the women who had once worked at the brothel. Dandelion had taken to sitting in his pillow fort in the downstairs room and chattering happily with the women who either didn’t care that he was an Omega or were too drunk to have figured it out yet.

Perhaps the outside world was still a danger to him, but as long as no one was coming into the Rosemary and Thyme then there was no immediate danger.

Geralt knew it couldn’t last.

He was heading down the steps when he heard the sound of an argument.

Dandelion was sprawled in his little corner, looking like a prince on top of old pillows under a canopy of silk with his bandaged feet stretched in front of him. He stayed remarkably cheerful as long as he was kept busy, so they’d taken to carrying him downstairs everyday.

Priscilla was sitting in a chair beside him looking less than amused. Several of the girls Dandelion had inherited along with the brothel were wandering around in various states of undress, having finally come back after Dandelion’s return.

“Is this truly what you want?” asked Priscilla. “To be the purveyor of cheap whores and watered down wine?”

Dandelion made an offended noise. “Hey! I can’t control what I inherit!”

“But you can control what you do with it!”

“I know! I knowwwww. Which is exactly why I’m considering-”

“Ugh,” Priscilla moaned. “You’re always considering! If it’s not one thing, it’s another! Let me know when you finally decide!” Then she pushed herself up, grumbling to herself and stomping out the door.

“What was that about?” asked Geralt, taking her recently vacated seat.

“She spat in my face!” cried Dandelion. “Or might as well have. Called me a _whoremongerer and a witless hack_! Can you imagine? Wit is my forte!”

Geralt snorted. “Gotta say, Priscilla’s really growing on me.”

Dandelion scowled and looked away, directly at the ass of one of the girls. “Save it,” he muttered, watching her from across the room with a scowl.

“And why don’t you save your pouting?” challenged Geralt. “Prove to her that she’s wrong.” It would keep his mind off everything else, hopefully.

“Exactly what I plan to do! Or, what I had planned.” Dandelion sighed. “Geralt, no one’s going to come to a cabaret owned by an Omega. And that’s if I could even afford to renovate, which I can’t seeing as how Menge took all the treasure for himself.”

“Where’d you get this Cabaret idea?”

“Its been a dream for years,” said Dandelion. He seemed so earnest that Geralt refrained from pointing out that he’d never heard of it before. “Ever since we went to see one in Oxenfurt. Remember? The dancer hanging from the chandelier? And once she was completely downside up she called you over and-”

Geralt quickly cut him off, “I remember.”

“How could you forget!? And this place’ll be even better, I promise.” He frowned, leaning back in his pillows.”Of course, that’s if I can scrounge together the funds for remodeling.”

Geralt had to agree the place needed help before it was inhabitable, let alone the cabaret of Dandelion’s dreams. ”How much do you need-”

“No,” said Dandelion firmly. “I know what you’re thinking Geralt, but this is my business. I refuse to take a single crown from you. You know what they say: _fastest way to lose a friend is to loan him some coin_.”

“Maybe the Vivaldis would give you a loan,” Geralt suggested. He just needed to get to Vimme first, tell him that he would front the coin as long as the dwarf didn’t tell Dandelion where it came from. Let him think it was a loan. “I’d vouch for you.”

“Funny you mention that,” Dandelion grumbled. “I went to see Vivaldi before Ciri showed up. Know what he said? Witchers are no good as guarantors.” He scratched his hair with a frown. “Risk of premature death is too high.”

Geralt had to admit that was a good point.

“But,” said Dandelion, a grin on his face. “I have another idea.” He pushed himself up, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he said, “I need… a favor.”

Geralt sighed. “What kind of favor?”

“I dated this girl once - Sophronia. That’s a name, if you can believe it. Has a merchant for a father, importer of spices from Zerrikania. And daddy dear could never refuse his dear daughter a thing.”

Geralt could already tell it was going to be a terrible idea, but he saw no reason not to let Dandelion continue. At least it was entertaining. “What about her?”

“We can borrow the coin from her!” Dandelion said, as though that explained everything.

“Name rings a bell,” Geralt mused. “Isn’t this the woman you abandoned without saying a word? Stepped out for a bottle of wine, never to return?”

Dandelion bit his lip. “Knew I bought that wine for a reason.”

“A long time ago that.”

“Been away for a while, sure,” agreed the bard. “Which is why I need…. to draw on your authority. You’ve got some, you know, no matter what you might think.”

“I have a feeling you already have a plan all cooked up.”

Dandelion nodded vigorously. “Saphronia could still hold a grudge after our… unfortunate parting. But with a touch of help from you I know I know she’ll forgive me, ignore any rumors about me, and then give me that loan.”

Geralt cocked his head.“What’s this help entail?”

“First of all, we need a dull sword from Madame Irina - one of her props.” Dandelion dug into the stack of papers beside him, pulling out what Geralt could only assume was his plan, scribbled in his hasty script. “You know, like they use during performances?”

“Dandelion, you’re my friend and I care about you deeply,” Geralt said with a shake of his head, “which is why I don’t trust you with any sword, dull or not.”

“Very funny, Geralt.” Dandelion folded his arms over his chest. “Listen, Saphronia loves adventure-filled romance novels.”

“So that’s what you saw in her? A book club with sex on the side?”

Dandelion ignored him, saying, “I could be a hero in her eyes - if I save her from a bandit!”

That was the last thing Geralt was expecting. “What?” he demanded.

“I’ll have her eating out of my hand!” the bard continued, practically bouncing. “And there’s no way she’ll begrudge me that loan!”

“Let me guess,” Geralt snorted. “I’m the bandit.”

“Why not? You’re big and scary - well, as long as we cover your face. If anyone sees that there’s no way they’d think you’re dangerous,” he said. It took a moment for Geralt to realize he was completely serious.

The Witcher growled at him, baring his teeth, but Dandelion just seemed delighted by the expression that would have terrified anyone else. “See? Adorable!”

“I gotta better idea,” said Geralt, reaching into his bag and pulling out the coin pouch Dijkstra had given him. “It’s not a loan, it’s a gift.” 

“But-”

“Dandelion, I’m going to be blunt,” Geralt said. “You have two broken feet and we don’t know what Sophronia - or daddy dearest - thinks about Omegas-”

Dandelion’s face fell. “But- but Geralt! I’ve written your lines already!”

Just when he thought he couldn’t be surprised by anything else, Geralt demanded, “You’ve written what?”

“So you know what to say during the performance!”

Geralt couldn’t keep a straight face as Dandelion passed him his lines. “I see what this is,” he said, barely glancing at the paper. “You’re upset that you missed my performance with Madame Irina’s players.” He also suspected that Dandelion wanted to play the part of the hero as an attempt to overcome the now public knowledge that he was an Omega. _He deserves that chance_ , thought Geralt. _But not with this harebrained scheme_.

“Well… maybe.” Dandelion gave him a lopsided smile. “Everyone else got to see it! Even Zoltan - and he will not stop holding that over my head, Geralt! Just this morning he-”

Geralt sighed. “Dandelion, I did that to draw Dudu out of hiding so I could save your sorry ass.”

“And?” whined the bard. “That doesn’t mean that I can’t be distraught that I missed it!”

The Witcher groaned. “Look,” he said, “If I promise to do a repeat performance will you take the coin?”

“Oh alright, fine!” Dandelion sunk back into his pillows with a defeated sigh. “But I’m holding you too that Geralt. I want it in writing!”

“I’m not leaving for Skellige for a few-”

“Oh no!” said Dandelion quickly. “As much as I’d like to see your performance right now, we’ve got to wait for Ciri, it’s only fair. She’d have my head if she missed it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't played the games, one of the things I skipped was a quest in which Geralt and Priscilla put on a play to find Dudu (Geralt played the lead role). I always figured Dandelion was upset that he missed it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my favorite part of Witcher 3 is everyone being like "Isn't this great, Dandelion is so rational now and he's ready to settle down" and poor Geralt is standing there yelling "NO HE'S NOT."

There were dwarves gathered outside the Rosemary and Thyme.

Geralt stopped and raised an eyebrow, not certain what to say. He hadn’t been gone that long - picking up supplies for his trip to Skellige - but it seemed Dandelion and Zoltan had gotten busy working on the renovations already.

Two dwarves were arguing on the front steps.

“What’re ye doin’?” asked the dwarf in a brown hood. “Knockin’-off time already?”

“Nay,” said his companion, wearing a yellow hood. “Just hopped out for a smoke.”

“They still arguing?”

“Seems they can’t decide on a color now.”

“Don’t know what the fucking problem is,” said brown hood. “A color’s either pretty or ugly, ain’t no philosophy to it.”

Geralt snorted. _You don’t know Dandelion_ , he thought. 

The inside was even busier than the outside, brothel girls rushing about as dwarves argued loudly, pointing and shouting in their own language as they drug all the furniture - including Dandelion’s pillow fort - outside. 

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Priscilla was saying. “You’ve come too early.”

“We agreed to meet today,” said a dwarf who appeared to be in charge. “So we’ve come today. Supplies are all hauled in and my crew’s rarin’ to work. We’ll start just as soon as our lovely directress gets round to decidin’ on the decorations.”

“But Dandelion doesn’t even have the coin to pay you!”

“He does,” said Geralt. He’d hung on to the bag, per Dandelion’s wishes, but was happy to give it to the dwarves in payment.

“See?” asked the foreman. “It’s all peachy. So will ye finally decide on what color ya want for this interior?”

The dwarf was looking at Geralt expectantly so he raised an eyebrow. “Why’re you asking me?” _Gods damn it, are even the dwarven craftsmen racist against Omegas?_

“Well, the lovely lady seems to be having’ a hard time decidin’,” the dwarf said, much to Geralt’s surprise. “And Master Dandelion was havin’ a hard time choosin’ between boudoir style and theatre, but that he’d let us know just as soon as he arrived.”

“Where is Dandelion?” Geralt asked softly.

“Triss gave him a new medication and now we can’t get him up,” Priscilla explained. “She and Zoltan are with him now.”

“Well?” asked the dwarf, seemingly unconcerned by Dandelion’s medical problems. “The lady’s horribly surprised she’s to choose, even though Zoltan tells me this whole debacle’s for her sake.”

“For me?” squeaked Priscilla.

“Well, it’s not for me!” snapped the dwarf. “Now could you please decide before I burst a vessel?”

“I’ve no idea what Dandelion would like,” Priscilla confessed. “Geralt, you’ve known him longer. Say something.”

“Ostentatious?” The Witcher suggested. “Gaudy?” he motioned to the ridiculous painting of Dandelion slaying a wyvern, which was currently being carried out by two giggling girls. “Does that answer your question?”

The foreman laughed loudly.

“Wait!” Zoltan came rushing down the steps, taking them two at a time. “Our bard’s awake!”

“Great!” said Priscilla happily, throwing up her hands. “What does he want?”

“Theatre style,” panted Zoltan. “Er, was I on time?”

“Your timing is impeccable, Zoltan,” Geralt promised. The dwarf saluted and then turned and jogged back up the stairs.

“A wonderful choice! At last!” cried the foreman. Turning to his men he called, “Gentleman! You’ve been lollygaggin’! Get to work!”

“He calls this lollygaggin?” Geralt muttered, looking at the busy scene around them. “I thought my teachers at Kaer Morhen were rough.”

Priscilla could only shake her head.

“I guess this cabaret’s the real thing,” Geralt mused. “At least it’ll keep him busy.” Hopefully it would keep his mind off things, although Geralt supposed it could also compound the problem by bringing public attention on him. _Only one way to know, I suppose_.

“Ever since Dandelion inherited this place he’s talked about it constantly,” said Priscilla. “I just never expected him to take action so quickly, especially not after….”

Geralt nodded. “Who knows, might even settle down now,” he joked. “He’ll have to keep an eye on the business.” He gestured to the ass of a passing woman.

Priscilla seemed offended. “Despite what people say about him, Dandelion approaches life very rationally.”

Geralt blinked. “We talkin’ about the same Dandelion?” he asked bluntly. “Man who looses a fortune worth half of Novigrad in one night?”

“Dandelion can also be very reasonable,” said Priscilla. “He always pays anyone who works for him on time-”

“It’s hard not to pay whores on time, they tend to expect payment up front.”

“And he’s never missed a performance.”

“Hmm. You got me there,” agreed Geralt. Then he added, “Except that time he was too busy fucking the mayor’s daughter on Beltane, or the time in-”

“Alright!” cried Priscilla, throwing up her hands. “I get it.”

Geralt snorted. “I’m going to check on Sleeping Beauty,” he said, making his way toward the stairs. “Uh, you’re in charge down here.”

The door to Dandelion’s room was open, and he could hear the chatter of voices before he entered. It seemed Dandelion was wide awake already, as though excited by all the hubbub.

“Geralt!” said Zoltan happily as he entered. “Look at this!”

Dandelion was sitting in a strangely modified chair that someone had attached wheels to. He looked absolutely delighted. Geralt could only imagine him rolling it off the deck outside the Rosemary and Thyme by accident and breaking his neck.

“Looks… great,” he said slowly.

“I can get myself around until my feet heal!” said Dandelion happily. “Isn’t it wonderful, Geralt?” Behind him, Triss was shaking her head.

“It- uh, it’s something.”

“Oh Geralt, this is excellent! We can go find Polly!”

“Ah, Polly?”

“His choreographer,” said Triss, folding her arms over his chest. “Who I have explained he does not need to hunt down.”

“Now listen here!” said Dandelion, waving his hands. “You said I couldn’t go looking for Polly because I couldn’t walk, but I don’t need to talk, I can _wheel_.”

“Openin’s coming up soon,” mused Zoltan. “We’re gonna need her.” Dandelion nodded vigorously.

“Zoltan, can you find Polly?” Geralt asked hopefully.

“But I wanted-” began Dandelion.

“You need to be supervising renovations,” Geralt said quickly. “Delegating tasks is… a thing that business owners do.”

Dandelion frowned. “I- I guess you’re right,” he muttered. “Zoltan, can you-”

“On it!” said the dwarf, already hurrying out the door. Clearly he had no interest in being present for more of Dandelion’s complaints or Triss’ objections.

Triss shook her head. “Try to talk some sense into him, Geralt,” she said as she followed the dwarf out the door.

“Maybe they’ll drop a beam on her head,” mused Dandelion.

Geralt folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes.

“Kidding!” sang the bard.

“Sure,” he snorted.

“Geralt, I _really_ like my chair,” said the bard, pouting. “Zoltan had the craftsmen make it for me and-“

“Just don’t break your neck,” Geralt said, kneeling down to get a better look at it.

“Of course I won’t!” Dandelion pouted. “How’s work downstairs going?”

“Well, enough.” Geralt pushed himself to his feet. “So now I gotta know - how’d you wind up owning this… establishment?” He’d gotten bits of the story from others, but wanted Dandelion’s version of the story. The bard’s version was always the most amusing, after all.

Dandelion snickered. “You’ll never believe this! I inherited it from none other than Alonso Wily!”

Geralt tilted his head. “Am I meant to know who that is?”

“Whoreson Senior himself!”

“You’re right,” snorted the Witcher, “I don’t believe it.”

“Alonso ruled the underworld with an iron fist. But deep down he was a romantic, pure as they come. This place is one of the reasons his son wasn’t my biggest fan. See Cyprian - that’s Junior - wanted to run this as a brothel, and his headquarters. But the Rosemary went to me.” Dandelion waved his hand around the room. “And I plan to turn it into the most elegant venue in town, a den of art and culture.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “It’s gonna need more than a bit of paint for that.”

Downstairs, something crashed and Zoltan’s voice rang out as he yelled several curse words. “It sounds like it’s getting more than that,” said Dandelion. “Can you help me downstairs, Geralt? I’d like to see what’s going on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was updating the tags for this story and apparently "Wheelchair sex" is a tag. Hmmmm. Dandelion is definately interested lol.


	3. Chapter 3

Downstairs, the renovation was in full swing. The room was stripped entirely bare, dust particles hanging in the air as the dwarves shouted over one another. The brothel girls raced around, giggling and laughing, as though the whole thing was a face. Geralt resisted the urge to cover his ears to block out the sound.

“Its perfect!” cried Dandelion. “It’s undergoing a transformation, just like its namesake, the noble Chameleon. Ah- that’s the name now, did I tell you?”

“No,” Geralt said.

“Rosemary and Thyme wasn’t all bad,” said Dandelion, with a shrug. “But it conjured images of Temerian cuisine served by women in peasants garb. Chameleon’s a lot better for a cabaret,” he explained. “It empathizes that it’s undergone a transformation, to better stand out from it’s enviroment.”

“Chameleons don’t change color to blend into their environment or stand out from it,” said Geralt bluntly. “A man with degrees from Oxenfurt ought to know that.” The bard shrugged.

Geralt pushed Dandelion’s chair out the back of the newly named Chameleon, into the small grass patch that made up the backyard, where all the furniture was currently being stored.

“So much for the grass,” remarked Geralt, glancing at the torn up lawn.

“No matter!” said Dandelion brightly. “I was actually thinking of putting down stone and making a patio once the Chameleon turns a profit. It would be perfect for composing in fall don't you think?” Not waiting for an answer, Dandelion continued, “And speaking of plants, I need a list of what you use for your potions.”

“Why? Decided to take up alchemy?”

“No! Gardening, actually.” Dandelion pointed to the Chameleon’s balcony, which ran all the way around the outside of the building on every floor. “The top floor is mine,” he explained. “That’s where I live - I offered Zoltan a room up there, but he wanted the basement.” The bard shrugged. "I don't understand why anyone would-"

“You mentioned gardening?” Geralt pressed.

“Oh, right, well, I was going to use the balcony for that. You’re always foraging for herbs, so I thought I might as well try to grow them. Triss is going to help me.”

Geralt blinked. He didn’t know what to say, how to express his gratitude. Thankfully, Dandelion seemed to understand, “Geralt it’s the least I can do,” he said. “And, ah- you have a room too. In case you ever want to take a break from the Path.”

“Thank you, Dandelion.”

“Really, Geralt, don’t worry about it,” he said. “My home is your home.”

Geralt swallowed, not trusting himself to speak. Instead he looked away, studying the stacks of tables and chairs as though it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Ah? Geralt?” Dandelion asked. “Are you with me? Have I broken you with basic human kindness?”

“It’s not- it’s more than that, Dandelion.”

“No it’s not!” said the bard, shaking his head. “Geralt, you’re my best friend! I lo- I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’re my friend too, bard,” Geralt said softly.

Dandelion practically beamed at him, then quickly changed the subject as the poet was wont to do. “Soooo, Geralt,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Not to ah, change the subject, but… Zoltan mentioned that he saw you and Priscilla talking…”

“He saw right.”

“Andddddd she say anything?” he pressed. “About me?”

“Mhm,” said Geralt with a nod, keeping his face serious. “She said you’ve gained some weight and that you should bathe more often.”

“Very funny Geralt!” snapped Dandelion, crossing his arms. “Shove it.” Then he added, “No, really Geralt, what did she say?”

“She... said something that made me think she’s not entirely normal,” Geralt said thoughtfully.

Dandelion looked worried. “What?”

“That you’re responsible,” said the Witcher. “Got your feet firmly planted on the ground.”

Dandelion’s eyes widened. “You’re pulling my leg!”

“Not this time.”

The bards entire face lit up and he clapped his hands in delight. “Oh! Geralt, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

“Well, well,” Geralt said with a laugh. “Never thought I’d live to see the day. Dandelion living in monogamy.”

“I’ve always been monogamous!” argued the poet. “Well, near enough. I just changed muses often!”

“Pricilla another one for your… collection?”

“No,” said Dandelion with a smug grin. “She’s it’s crowning glory.”

Then he suddenly changed topics yet again, “Oh! One more thing, Geralt, should we have a room for Ciri? There’s four on the top floor, mine, yours, a music room and-”

“Shouldn’t that be Priscilla’s room?”

Dandelion paused, then shook his head. “She can stay on the third floor! It’s practically the same, and I might have already told Zoltan to design a bird crest for Ciri’s door. A swallow, with elven runes, it’s beautiful Geralt! If you can find my papers, I have a rough sketch!”

Geralt glanced over the piles of stuff, his eyes landing on Dandelion’s journal. He dug it out from under a pile of tankards and passed it to the bard.

“I promised Ciri she could have a room,” Dandelion was saying as he flipped through the book. “She seemed excited Geralt, particularly when I said you would have a room as well. She insisted I find a monster head to hang on the wall, but ah- well, you’re going to have to find that for me.”

“What kind of monster?”

“It’s your room! Pick what you like! Zoltan knows a master taxidermist, so once you’ve got the head, take it to him.” Locating the page he was looking for, Dandelion held it up proudly. “Here we are!”

“That… looks like a chicken.”

Dandelion pouted. “As I said, it’s a very rough sketch, Geralt.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt said quietly. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you making a space for me, but-”

“I- I thought you would like it,” the poet said quietly. “You told me once that you wished to be done with it all. I thought, once you’d found Ciri, you might need somewhere to stay and put your head back in order until you’d decided what it was that you wished to do.” The bard paused, then added, “Whether you wish to stay or go, I’ll support you, as long as you come to visit me.”

* * *

Work on the Chameleon continued throughout the day, eventually Triss and Priscilla both left, having other things to do in the city. Dandelion remained in the back yard most of the day, and only occasionally did a passerby stop to stare (although they quickly moved on when Geralt reached for his sword).

By evening, work had progressed enough that they were able to return inside, although they opted to remain downstairs, laughing and delving into the Chameleon’s food and wine.

Dandelion, thankfully, stuck to tea, although he did sneak sips from Geralt’s wine when he thought the Witcher wasn’t looking. Or, more likely, he knew Geralt saw him and was just being difficult.

Zoltan was partway through a very entertaining tale about their first night living in the brothel (helped along by regular interruptions from Dandelion) when the door flew open and a man Geralt didn’t recognize stumbled in, panting and dripping wet from the rain. “Master- Master Dandelion!” he shouted, stumbling and nearly falling. “Priscilla- she-”

Geralt had reached for his sword when the door burst open, but he slowly set it said, pushing himself to his feet to see what was happening.

“What?” demanded Dandelion, looking pissed that his story had been interrupted. “Speak man.”

The man caught his breath and managed to gasp out, “She’s badly hurt. Been attacked. They took her to Vilmerius Hospital.”

Dandelion turned very pale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Dandelion has degrees from the most prestigious university on the Continent but he canonically believes that tides are caused by a giant fish that sucks up ocean water twice a day.
> 
> ‘I think,’ Dandelion said, trembling slightly, ‘that down there in the depths, at the very bottom of this bloody ocean, crouches a huge monster, a fat, scaly beast, a toad with horns on its vile head. And from time to time it draws water into its belly, and with the water everything that lives and can be eaten: fish, seals, turtles–everything. And then, having devoured its prey, it pukes up the water and we have the tide. What do you think about that?’ 
> 
> (Sword of Destiny, p. 218)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a bit of gore in this chapter, description of a dead body. It starts after the break if you want to skip it.

“I’ll find out what’s going on,” Geralt promised, patting Dandelion’s knee. “Zoltan-”

“Aye,” said the dwarf. “I’ll keep everythin’ safe.”

Geralt pulled up his hood and hurried out into the streets of rainy Novigrad. Thunder cracked over his head.

The messenger had told him which hospital he could find Priscilla at, but nothing beyond that. Once there, all Geralt had to do was say Priscilla’s name and he was led up the steps to her room, where an aged man was bending over her lifeless form on the bed.

“You must be the Witcher,” said the man softly. “I’ve heard of you. I am Joachim Von Gratz, head of surgery. Until recently, I was a lecturer at Oxenfurt Academy.”

“Enough of the courtesies,” Geralt said sharply, running a quick glance over Priscilla and cataloguing her injuries: a bloodied face and a bandage over her eye. “What are her injuries? Besides her eye?”

“A concussion, cranial swelling, incision into her larynx and scalding into the throat and esophagus,” he said. “Clearly someone forced her to imbibe a caustic fluid.” The surgeon paused, then added, “There was one other thing, a letter, left beside her, reading _Omega’s Whore_.”

Geralt closed his eyes with a groan. _Dandelion’s never gonna forgive himself for this_ , he thought. “So this was no ordinary attack? No robbery?” Perhaps the note had only been an after thought, that would make it easier to explain to Dandelion.

“Clearly not it was the act of a demented mind,” said Joachim calmly. “And not the first.”

“How can you know that?”

“I’ve seen wounds like this - they’re not the kind one would forget, don’t you agree?” Joachim gestured to Pricilla and Geralt stepped forward slowly, crouching beside the bed to get a better look at her. “In fact, just this week a corpse turned up in a morgue with similar injuries… and no testicles.”

“Is someone looking into this?”

Joachim shook his head. “This is Novigrad. Only the innocent burn here.”

Geralt swallowed. “I’m going to find the killer,” he said.

“I would suggest examining the previous victim’s corpse. It has yet to be autopsied. Doing so could very well provide some clues.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“No need to look astonished. As a surgeon I know the importance of preventive medicine. Rather than wait for this maniac to strike again I’d prefer to excise him. Not unlike a tumor.”

Geralt pushed himself to his feet. “Think they’ll let me into the morgue?”

“By the main entrance? Certainly not.” Joachim paused, then softly added, “But you could enter through the sewers.”

“The sewers? Travel them often, Doctor?”

“As often as is required for… er, the pursuit of preventive medicine.”

“Alternative treatments,” Geralt mused. “Aggressive ones I’m guessing. Interesting.” He wasn’t certain what he thought of the man, but if he was willing to help Geralt find Priscilla’s attacker - and hopefully prove that it was nothing more than a robber who had left the note as an after thought - then he would need his help.

“We can discuss this enroute. Are you ready?”

“Mhm. Ready and intrigued.”

* * *

He followed the strange, albeit slightly aggressive doctor to the morgue and quickly located the body they were looking for.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

The dwarf’s eyes had been gouged out, replaced by burning coals. His heart had been removed, then cock and testicles had been cut off and placed in his chest cavity along with a glass bottle.

Geralt took the bottle from Joachim with a frown. Popping off the top he said, “Suppressants.” 

Between the smell of the medication and the formaldehyde the killer had filled the corpse with, Geralt was starting to feel as though he was suffocating. He stepped back, just enough to clear his head. “Alright, I know enough.”

“Enlighten me, please.”

“This was a punishment,” Geralt said, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Someone doesn’t like Omegas that think for themselves, take suppressants. It’s how I’ll find him.” He motioned to the body. “Any idea what his name is?”

“Fabian Meyer,” said an unfamiliar voice. Geralt and Joachim both turned quickly to see a young man walking toward them. “And I’m Hubert Rejk, the coroner. I’ve come to perform the autopsy, but I see you’ve done it for me, Joachim. As always you meddle where you’re not needed.” Hubert folded his arms over his chest, then nodded to Geralt. “And who is this?”

“A student,” said Geralt with a straight face. “A lifelong learner. Got a couple of questions for you.”

“Very well,” said Hubert with a sigh. “But speak quick, Reverend Nathaniel has come by for an inspection and will be here shortly.”

“You two know each other?” It probably wasn’t the most important thing, but Geralt burned with curiosity anyway. And besides, if he had a good story involving feuding doctors to feed to Dandelion, the bard might perk up.

“Hubert taught me of medicine,” explained Joachim. Geralt raised an eyebrow. By any guess, Hubert was half Joachim’s age (unless he aged like Dandelion).

“And not very well,” said Hubert. “You’ve still not mastered certain, basic principals. For example, that a doctor’s role is to treat the ill, not save the world.”

_I know a barber surgeon who’d disagree with that_ , thought Geralt. _Although, perhaps Hubert is right, Regis did die for his beliefs, after all_.

“You’ve not changed a bit,” remarked Joachim.

“A compliment?”

“No.”

His brief entertainment concluded, Geralt asked, “Woodcarver’s body - where was it found?”

“His workshop, south of the market square, just beside the gate to Farcorners. Speak to Euscice, the corpse collector, on your way. He bought the body, I saw him just outside.” Then he smoothly turned and bowed to the door. “Greetings, your reverence.”

A rather furious looking member of the Church of the Eternal Fire was standing in the door. “Who are these people? I believe I made it clear no one was to be allowed in.”

“They’re friends of the deceased,” explained Hubert. “Here to collect the body.”

“Out of the question. See them out. Immediately.”

“As your Reverence wishes.” Hubert bowed again, then motioned for Geralt and Joachim to follow him. “Gentlemen, follow me.”

Geralt waited until they were out of the Reverend’s hearing to ask, “Why’d you cover for us?”

“Covering my own arse. I’m in charge of the morgue, if someone enters without permission, its my head. But you didn’t think about that, did you Joachim?” He didn’t give Joachim a chance to defend himself, quickly moving on and saying, “But I do wish to see this murderer hang, if I learn anything from this corpse, I shall inform you.” And then he stomped away.

“Thank you,” Joachim called after him.

“Nathaniel?” Geralt asked his companion. “Who is he?”

“A scoundrel, a rouge. Like all who don the robe of the Eternal Fire.”

“Most are scoundrel before they ever put on the robe.”

“True in Nathaniel’s case as well,” agreed Joachim. “Before he donned the frock he was a torturer. Delighted especially in torturing Omegas. Later, he wasappointed to oversee the morgue. Deals with the Temple Guard, supervises cremations, conducts funeral masses and so forth.”

“Dream job,” said the Witcher dryly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have.... almost the rest of this story finished so I'll be uploading a lot over the next day or so. I prewrote most of it this weekend (and it's following the game to an extent, which makes my life easier)

Geralt hadn’t learned as much as he’d have liked.

But the man had been an Omega. The killer had opened his chest, removed his heart, and replaced it with his testicles and a vial of suppressants. That in and of itself was more information than he honestly wanted to know.

Geralt shook his head to clear it. There was no point in dwelling on that, not until he was able to follow up on his other leads, namely the corpse collector.

Unfortunately, the man was a drunk and an asshole.

Fortunately, Geralt had plenty of experience in dealing with Dandelion.

“Talk,” he said, casting his fingers in the sign of Axii. It was something he sometimes wanted to do to Dandelion, when the man was being particularly annoying, but it had never seemed right to do to a friend. The corpse collector wasn’t a friend, though. “What did you find on the body?”

“Ayyyyye. As you wi-sh,” stuttered the corpse collector. “Trifflings, baubles, glass beaded ring, handful ‘o coins…” for a moment, Geralt thought he was done speaking, then he pulled something from his pocket. “And a letter. Look- vellum, quality parchment. Could ‘ave wiped it off ta sell it.”

Geralt took the letter slowly and gave it a sniff. “This is human skin,” he said before opening it to read.

“Priscilla,” he read aloud. He looked up and narrowed his eyes at the corpse collector. “Next victim’s name,” he said, waving the letter. “If you’d given this to the right person she might not have been hurt.”

He shrugged. “What the fuck do I care what happens to some Pruhsilly? We short ‘o wenches in this town?”

Geralt punched him.

“Oy!” the man cried from the ground. “What was that for?”

“For your help,” said the Witcher.

With nothing better to do, Geralt went back to the alley where Priscilla had been attacked, hoping he could find another slip of paper with another person’s name on it.

Kneeling down, he studied the ground for any sign of the attack, focusing his senses on the weak scent of blood.

He didn’t notice the other people in the alley until one of them hit him over the head with a frying pan. “Ow!” Spinning abruptly Geralt dropped into a defensive pose, then froze.

His attackers were both women, one dressed in a tight red shirt, her breasts spilling over it, the other in a loose fitting brown dress.

The woman in red swung at him, but Geralt caught her wrist, gently lowering it. “Calm down,” he urged. “I’m not gonna hurt you. What’re you doing here?”

“Gettin’ vengeance!” She struggled to pull her wrist away, but Geralt held tight. “Well, why ya starin’?”

“Killers always return to the scene of their crime,” said the second woman. She stepped closer and Geralt resisted the urge to recoil away from the stench of herbs that wafted off her. _A whore and an herbalist- no, abortionist?_ Geralt thought, tilting his head. They looked enough alike that he supposed they might be sisters, although the herbalist seemed older and oddly familiar.

“We were waiting ‘ere to give ‘im a warm welcome!” snapped the whore. “For Priscilla! Almost did ‘er in ‘e did, the whoreson!”

“I know,” said Geralt. “I’m here to look for clues and anyone who might know something.”

The women exchanged glances. “We can tell you what we know,” said the herbalist.

“You and Priscilla friends?” Geralt asked.

“Friends?” The whore snorted. “Nah, but she saw more than a stupid whore in me, treated me wit’ respect. It mattered.” She shook her head. “I were looking ta give up whorin’ for a decent trade. But no-one would take me, not as a washerwoman, nor a servant, nor a cook. Felt like a leper I did, but Priscilla, she were different.” She sighed, hanging her head. “Agreed to put me in her play, you see? Lots o’ the other actors they were afraid on account o’ her jestin’ ‘bout the Eternal Fire.”

Geralt nodded. Dandelion had mentioned that it wasn’t easy to find actors who weren’t afraid of being in the limelight around him and Priscilla, and that had been before he was denounced as a Heretic.

“Whistling Wendy on stage? Can you imagine?” She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. “Well, dream’s gone now. I’m back to working street corners.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Geralt said, wishing he had Triss or even Dandelion with him. Either of them would have known the right thing to say.

“But me sister-” Wendy shook her head and grinned. “She’s a friend o’ Master Dandelion, she is.” 

The herbalist tilted her head. “I’ve told you, Wendy, I’m not that kind of friend.”

Geralt studied her, then recognition set in. “You sold me his suppressant, nearly fifteen years ago.”

“Mary,” the woman said with a smile. “You never asked my name before, Witcher, too concerned about him since he’d been given the poppy in place of his suppressants.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that. He could probably say something, express some sort of gratitude at running into an old - What was she to him? Friend? Drug supplier? - but with no better ideas he simply asked, “Priscilla wasn’t the sole victim - you aware of that?”

“Oh dearie,” Wendy said with a shake of her head. “Of course we were. This didn’t start yesterday. Other’s have died before. Beggars, street girls, orphans. But who’d ‘ave cared about them? Human rubbish, it’s what the guards call us.”

Geralt turned to Mary. “Did you know the victims?”

She nodded. “If that’s your way of asking if they were all Omegas, then yes, they were.”

“Priscilla’s a beta,” Geralt said.

Mary nodded. “The only thing worse than an Omega is a beta who treats them like an equal.”

“Recall any names?”

Mary shook her head. “They didn’t have proper ones. Baldy, Curly, Buns…”

“They didn’t have no family,” said Wendy. “Their bodies were burned up long ago.”

Geralt nodded. “Thank you for your help,” he said. “I need to look around some more.”

“We’ll stay out of your way,” promised Mary.

“Tell us if you learn anything,” pleaded Wendy.

Geralt nodded. “I will,” he said. Then he stopped. “Wendy,” the Witcher said softly. “Give it a few days for things to settle down. Stop by the Chameleon, they’ll be expecting you. They’ll find you good, honest work.”

Then, before she could start thanking him, he turned and hurried off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wendy is an actual character from the game. Mary is my OC, the herbalist from Under the Weather


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey remember that time I skipped the scene at Whoreson’s because I didn’t want to describe torture?
> 
> I couldn’t exactly skip this scene, so be aware it gets BAD. It happens right after the scene break.

There wasn’t much to learn from Fabian Meyer’s relatives. His brother - Gus - hadn’t been present during the killing, only arriving after the body had been carted away. The only thing of note that Geralt learned was that Fabian had been an Omega, had taken supplements, had enjoyed fucking whores, and - most egregiously, in the Church’s mind - had carved statues of Metilte that depicted her as a protector of Omegas.

As he was leaving, a city guard approached him, saying, “There’s been another victim, coroner wants to see you. Told me to say the main door’ll be open for you. You’re to come as soon as you can.”

Geralt bid Gus farewell and ran for the morgue.

Hubert was waiting for him, standing over the newest corpse. “Geralt, right? I’m glad you’re here. Held off on the autopsy until you arrived.”

“Nice of you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, hanging back. “Especially given you didn’t seem pleased about my previous visit.” 

“Because you came unannounced and in unfortunate company,” said Hubert calmly. “I also had Reverend Nathaniel to deal with. Our spiritual caretaker has left the city on some important matter, and I know who you are, what drives you…. I’m more than happy to aid your investigation.”

“Not fond of Nathaniel?”

“Few people are,” replied Hubert. “He’s cruel. Strode in here once and grabbed a scalpel I was sterilizing over a burner. Sliced my back with it - to the bone. All because I had forgotten to lock the door to the storeroom.” The coroner shook his head, a scowl on his face. “Hard to be fond of someone like that, wouldn’t you agree?”

As a child, Geralt had been whipped for leaving a door unlocked, but that was because he’s accidentally released a drowner into Kaer Morhen. A unlocked storeroom in a morgue was most likely far less dangerous. “By the way,” he said softly, “you and Von Gratz don’t exactly get along. Why is that?”

“I had him sent to prison,” said Hubert simply. “You see, Joachim lead the student uprisings in 1242. A senseless and brutal revolt.”

Geralt remembered the uprisings, but only through his connection with Dandelion, who had been in the city when it had started. As a member of the nobility, a pro-Democratic uprising would have happily killed him, even if they also campaigned for Omegan rights. “A lot of people died,” remarked the Witcher.

“Anyone who rejected their ideals would be found in the gutter come morning,” said Hubert. “Their throats slit with surgical precision.”

“You had no choice but to turn him in?” Geralt guessed dryly.

“He had been my favorite student… but alas. Then I left the University and found work in the Morgue - where none care about my past. Whereas Joachim - oh the irony. Years later he was appointed as head of the very ward I had founded.”

Geralt nodded, stepping closer to see the body, having gotten all the gossip he cared to. Dandelion would know more about it, most likely, if he ever cared to find out. “Who’s the victim this time?”

“Joris Aquinis, a lecturer at Oxenfurt Academy. Found this morning in his home - on a catafalque made of his books.”

Vaguely Geralt wondered if Dandelion had known him, the bard knew most everyone at Oxenfurt. “Any titles in particular?”

“It seems all the tomes dealt with Omegas,” said Hubert softly. “Treatises critical of their treatment in society.”

“Yeah,” muttered Geralt. “A mortal sin in Novigrad.” Then he sighed. “Let’s start the autopsy.”

“Gladly. The wounds conform to the murderer’s modus operandi. The victim was bound and forced to drink formaldehyde. Next, the killer removed the eyes, placed burning coals in the sockets, then opened the ribcage and- what’s this?”

Geralt already knew what the man had found, “Let me guess,” he said. “A parchment made of human skin, bearing the name of the next victim? Who is it?”

“Patricia Vegelbud.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold.

“Do you know her?”

“Yes,” Geralt said. “I have to go now.”

* * *

He wasn’t in time to save Patricia Vegelbud, but the letter he found on her body - after chasing and losing - the killer, told him where to find the next victim. He didn’t like it, it was too easy.

Geralt had to force his way into Crippled Kate’s. Apparently Nettie was with an “important client” and couldn’t be disturbed. Already, he could hear the sound of torture - too quiet for human ears - coming from upstairs.

_“Hold still girlie, this won’t feel so good.”_

“I intend to do a lot of disturbing,” said Geralt as he shoved his way past the bouncer.

_“You’re so wet for me, look at that mess, dripping all over the floor. Slut.”_

He took the stairs two at a time and flung open the door to the private room where the noises were coming from and shoved open the door.

The scene inside was a nightmare.

Reverend Nathaniel was crouched by the fireplace, a red-hot poker in his hand.

Behind him, a young woman was gagged and hanging by her wrists from the bed frame, stripped nude, her body already displaying signs of torture. That was when the smell hit him.

It seemed her ‘important client’ had paid to spend her heat with her. She was sobbing, writhing in need and pain, slick dripping down her thighs and pooling beneath her.

“No one will hear you, bitch,” Nathaniel was saying, “not a soul.”

“You though,” snapped Geralt, stepping forward, “whole town’ll hear you in a minute.”

The reverend pushed himself up with a sigh. “Yet again you disturb me,” complained Nathaniel, shaking his head. “And I so dislike being disturbed. I was to play with Sweet Nettie. Render her not so sweet. But I shall see to you first.” He stepped toward Geralt, a poker in hand.

“What, no foreplay?” Geralt folded his arms. “No formaldehyde, no coals in my eye sockets?”

Nathaniel blinked in what seemed to be genuine surprise. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Netty sobbed and struggled against her bonds, kicking her feet uselessly.

“Murder,” said Geralt. “Fabian Meyer. Patricia Vegelbund. And many others.”

“Bollocks. You’re mistaken, mutant.” He didn’t smell like lies, nor did his face give any tells.

Geralt recalculated quickly. If Nathaniel wasn’t the killer, then who could have framed him? “Found a message on Patricia’s body. It led me here. Who knew you would be here?”

“Strangely enough, I don’t announce these outings far and wide,” the Reverend said, kneeling by the fire and putting the poker back inside it.

“I can imagine.” He stepped closer to Netty. If it all went to shit, he’d cut the rope on her wrists and hope she could run.

“There’s one man who…” Fabian’s voice trailed off. “But that’s impossible, he treats even corpses with kid gloves.”

“The coroner,” Geralt realized with a jolt. “He said you were busy.”

“Go- to warehouse twelve at the docks. He’s there this time of day, procuring supplies. Formaldehyde.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I shall stay here. I have unfinished business with Sweet Nettie.” He smiled cruelly and she sobbed. “After all, I paid in advance.”

“Then you’ll pay again,” Geralt said quietly. “For her, for all the women you’ve tortured. Just because you don’t murder them doesn’t make torturing them any better.”

Nathaniel didn’t have time to raise his hands before Geralt’s knife was in his throat. He hit the ground with a sickening thud. 

He moved to stand beside Netty, keeping his movements slow and deliberate so as to not frighten her. He slid his arm under her legs before cutting her free, so that she didn’t fall straight to the ground. Then he lowered her to her feet.

“You’re free now,” he promised.

She fell to her knees, putting her ass in the air with a sob of, “Alpha!” She must have smelled him, either that or she was just that desperate. “No,” he said gently, helping her up. “I’m going to hurt you.”

“Please-”

“Kate’s must keep someone who can help?” guessed Geralt. “On staff?” A brothel wouldn’t keep around Omegas without some method of handling them.

She nodded and wiped her face. “Yes Alpha, sir. But I can-”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, grabbing a blanket off the bed and wrapping it around her. “Come on, I need to explain the body.”


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt found Hubert exactly where he’d been told he would. He took a deep breath and pulled up his hood to cover his face as he approached, then tucked his hands behind his back. “Run out of formaldehyde?” he called, stepping out of the shadows once he was close enough.

“I underestimated you,” said Hubert softly, his back to Geralt in a carefree manner. "You almost caught me _inflagrante delicto_ , now you’ve seen through my bluff with Nathaniel…”

Geralt slowly walked closer, as Hubert continued, “Although, you’ve not divined all, I see. Had you, you’d have drawn your silver sword.”

Hubert turned to face Geralt. “A vampire,” the coroner said, smiling at Geralt and showing his pointed teeth. “Higher, of course.”

_Damn you Regis, why couldn’t more of your brethren be like you? t_ hought the Witcher with a scowl. Although it did seem that, like Regis, Hubert enjoyed the medical profession.

“You got a reason for killing?” Geralt asked. “A reason for torture?”

“Natural order,” replied Hubert. “I thought the symbolism-”

“The symbolism’s clear,” promised Geralt. “What’s not is why a higher vampire would kill in the name of the Eternal Fire.”

“Should be equally obvious?” asked the vampire. “I concur with the church’s diagnosis.”

Geralt rubbed his ear. “What?”

“Novigrad is a fallen city, its population amnesiacs to the very concepts of decency and morality,” droned Hubert, waving his hand about in a grand manner. “So I decided to remind them, in a manner they’d be certain to notice.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“I’ve tried before, to use words, not actions. I wrote my magnum opus and for many years, that was enough. _The Care and Keeping of Omegas_ was followed by even the lowest of society-”

“You wrote that shit?” demanded Geralt. 

“Yes,” said the vampire. “But it wasn’t enough. Sin still reigned. I had to do more. To be direct. A lecherous woodcarver who drugged himself to prevent life’s natural order, instead spending his coin on whores. An old countess who defiled the symbols of the Faith. A trobairitz for whom nothing was sacred, who willing allowed an Omega to defile her.”

“Yeah, well, Dandelion’ll defile most anyone,” Geralt muttered.

“They did not deserve to live! But their deaths could be a lesson to others. Awaken them, scare them onto the correct path, the path to the Fire, to cleansing, salvation.” He stepped closer to Geralt, his eyes narrowed slightly. “For you, I’m afraid it’s too late. You are a man of little faith, who allows those who should be beneath him to rebel and revel.”

“Mhm,” Geralt agreed. “But I’m pretty good with a sword.”

“Pretty good might not cut it,” replied Hubert, his fingers already lengthening into talons.

Geralt jumped out of the way, drawing his sword and pushing his hood back. He only needed a few moments, to play along and let Hubert think he was actually trying to fight back.

The vampire chased him across the warehouse, toward the door, and Geralt saw his chance, letting himself trip over a length of rope. His sword clattered out of reach.

He was pinned down in an instant. “Your Omega is next,” Hubert promised Geralt. “I’ll drink his blood, slowly, over days. I’ll break every one of his heretical fingers. I shall cut off his cock so that he can no longer defile women…”

Hubert’s fangs sunk into the Witcher’s neck. “I-impossible-” he gasped as the Black Blood Geralt had drank before approaching him began to sink in.

“I only make the same mistake twice,” Geralt said quietly. “I didn’t recognize what Regis was, when I met him, but you- I knew what you were the moment you entered the Morgue.”

He shoved the dying monster off him, grabbing his sword and placing it against his throat for good measure. He couldn’t kill him permanently, but the more damage he could do the longer he would stay dead.

“One more thing,” he said quietly. “Dandelion might be an Omega, but he’s ten times the man you are.”

Hubert’s face screwed up in rage as Geralt shoved his blade through his throat. 

* * *

He went back to check on Priscilla before he did anything else, stepping in the door of her sickroom and giving Joachim a nod. “How is she?”

“Better,” promised Joachim. Then he glanced over his shoulder, “Right?”

“Y-yes,” said Priscilla weakly. She was propped up and seemed alive, although her face was still a bloodied mess. “Geralt-”

He pulled a chair beside her bed as Joachim walked away. “Everything’s alright,” he promised. “Your attacker is- he won’t hurt anyone again.”

She nodded. “Professor Von Gratz told me about the letter,” she said softly. “Is Dandelion-”

“I haven’t seen him,” Geralt admitted. He’d lost track of time since he’d left Dandelion in Triss and Zoltan’s care. It had been at least a day. Hopefully he hadn’t missed his boat to Skellige. “He’s safe.”

“He’ll blame himself,” she whispered.

“We’ll just have to talk sense into him,” Geralt said. He stood. “Stay here, rest. I’ll worry about Dandelion. As soon as the Professor allows it, we’ll move you to the Chameleon. Triss already has one patient there, what’s one more?”

“Thank you Geralt,” she murmured.

He nodded and stepped out the door, finding Joachim on his way. “It was Hubert,” he said. “You were right not to trust him. He was a higher vampire.”

Joachim raised an eyebrow. “I thought nothing could surprise me in Novigrad. It seems I was wrong. Deeply wrong.” Then he nodded. “Thank you Geralt. I will see to Miss Priscilla’s relocation in the next few days.”

“Farewell,” he said simply. He had other things to worry about, namely his bard.

The sun was setting as he walked back, meaning it had been a full day since he’d set off from the Chameleon. It also meant that he hadn’t missed his boat, not yet.

His relief was short lived

When he was almost back to the Cabaret he was greeted with a sight out of his worst nightmares.

Geralt froze, his blood running cold. A line of strangers were outside the Chameleon, some sitting, others standing. They were all talking quietly amongst themselves, many of them clutching tools - pitchforks, hammers, and the like.

He swore and ducked behind the building next door, then quickly climbed up to the roof, making use of its rough brick walls. Once on top of the building he crept quickly across the shingles and jumped to the top floor balcony of the Chameleon, prying open a window and climbing inside.

There was no sign of life in Dandelion’s private rooms, so he crept out, sneaking down the stairs in search of his friends.

Halfway down the steps, Geralt was greeted by a roar and Zoltan jumping out from behind a curtain, axe raised.


	8. Chapter 8

Once Zoltan stopped trying to murder him, he took him to the main floor where Dandelion was camped out in his wheelchair. Triss was seated beside him on an upturned barrel.

“Geralt!” The bard’s shoulders sagged. “Zoltan heard something on the roof- we were afraid-”

“Why are you still here with a mob outside?” Geralt demanded. “We need to get you out of here-”

“Geralt,” Triss said softly, “It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” Geralt waved his hand toward the door. “They have pitchforks, Triss! Do you remember how I died?”

“Geralt,” said Dandelion quietly. “I think we all remember that, vividly, but they’re not here to hurt us.”

“They’re friends of Dandelion’s apparently,” said Triss. “Word got out that Priscilla was attacked by anti-Omega rights group. They showed up to protect him.”

Startled, Geralt shifted the curtain aside to look out the window. Whistling Wendy winked at him, her trusty frying pan gripped in her hands. Beside her was Mary, clutching a scalpel, and Eilhal, Dandelion’s tailor, with a wicked looking pair of scissors. Geralt didn’t recognize the others.

“Geralt, I still have friends,” said the bard, soundly slightly stunned. “They- they didn’t abandon me because of what I am.”

“Good for them,” snapped Geralt, shutting the curtain. “Not blindly hating Omegas is the barest level of human decency I can imagine, so congrats to them.”

“Geralt,” Triss said quietly. “What have you learned?”

“Priscilla will live. She was talking when I saw her a few minutes ago. Joachim will bring her here once she’s able to travel.”

“Joachim?”

Geralt explained, “Joachim von Gratz-”

“What?” interrupted Dandelion. “Geralt he- he’s a revolutionary! He’ll kill me! Don’t you recall-”

“I’ve heard more about the student uprising of 1242 in the last day then I care to ever again,” said Geralt firmly. “Joachim won’t bother you.”

“What about her attackers, ey?” asked Zoltan, shifting slightly. “I’m more than willin’ ta help ya-”

“He’s gone,” Geralt said. “Dealt with. The Witcher way.”

“He wasn’t… human?” asked Triss.

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. Turning to Dandelion he asked, “Hubert Rejk a friend of yours?”

“I knew him,” said the poet brightly. “He taught medicine at Oxenfurt. I had a few classes under him, although, he wasn’t my favorite. It seems that even though I followed his assignment to a T - writing about the circularity system and how it moves oxygen through the body - it didn’t count because it was written in verse. The rules didn’t say anything about writing in Prose!”

Triss snorted. Dandelion ignored her, continuing, “He ended the uprising of-”

“1242,” Geralt finished for him. “And he was a higher vampire, a cultist, and a murderer.”

“A higher vampire?” asked Dandelion in surprise. “Are they all doctors, Geralt? Is it a blood thing or-” 

“No,” replied Geralt. “We just have bad luck.”

“Dandelion,” asked Triss, leaning closer with a smile. “Do you still have that assignment, by chance?”

“No,” muttered the poet. “Hubert burned it!”

“Geralt,” Zoltan asked. “I’m glad ta know Priscilla’s alright, but I gotta wonder: why? Why was he killin’ folk?”

“Because his book fell out of style,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “He wrote _The Care and Keeping of Omegas_ , and once it was no longer codified into law in Novigrad he took matters into his own hands.” 

Dandelion’s eyes widened. “He wrote The Book?”

Geralt nodded. “As for why he felt that way? Who knows. I guess he just hates Omegas.”

“Well,” said Triss. “I, for one, hope that the Church of Eternal Fire takes a hit for this.”

“They will,” the Witcher promised. “Reverend Nathaniel - the highest of their order in Novigrad - was caught with an Omega he wasn’t bonded to at _Crippled Kate’s_.”

“Hypocrisy at it’s finest,” crowed Dandelion. 

“Good,” said Triss. “I hope this was publicized?”

“Kate gave me her word,” Geralt said. “Now, I’m going to sleep. I can’t remember the last time I slept.”


End file.
